


The world we toasted to

by Onomatopoetikon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Needs a Nap (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, Other, Plant-sitter Aziraphale, Post-Armageddon, They/Them Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26492242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onomatopoetikon/pseuds/Onomatopoetikon
Summary: Aziraphale had been unable to refuse. They usually did not find it very difficult to refuse when it came to Crowley asking things of them, because, well, Crowley was a demon. You were supposed to reject them. But it was not as if Crowley’s request was particularlybad…
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	The world we toasted to

Aziraphale had been unable to refuse. They usually did not find it very difficult to refuse when it came to Crowley asking things of them, because, well, Crowley was a demon. You were supposed to reject them. Especially angels, and especially Principalities like Aziraphale. And Aziraphale had been careful to keep as much of a distance to Crowley as they possibly could, under the circumstances. Seeing as the circumstances consisted of sharing the same workplace for six thousand years and being unable to form lasting relationships with any other single being, ‘distance’ had, at times, been rather more a formality than a fact. But still.

Now, however, Aziraphale had found that their old, comforting dichotomy of good and evil was of no help at all. Where they had once found comfort in the knowledge that there were two opposite sides, and that they belonged to one of those sides, the events of a month ago disconcerted them to no end. 

It still hurt to have realised that the forces of Heaven had been prepared to destroy an entire planet, with all its life and wonders, simply because they wanted to best someone they had already defeated once. It seemed so terribly petty, so needless. Aziraphale could somewhat understand the demonic armies; they had been defeated, and they held a grudge. It was only natural that they should want to prove themselves. But for the host of Heaven to act the way they had… it made Aziraphale ashamed. 

Also, they and Crowley were both exiled from their respective realms. Whatever their former allegiances, neither of them had any allies there now. Although Aziraphale was loath to admit it, even to themself, Crowley had been right. The only side the two of them had now, was their own. 

And it was not as if Crowley’s request was particularly _bad_ … 

“You want me to- what?” Aziraphale asks, unable to process what the demon has just said. Maybe they misheard, what with all the noise in the park. Birds and strollers and people talking; they can’t have heard Crowley correctly. 

“I said” Crowley says slowly, obliging them by enunciating over-clearly: “could you do me a favour and water my plants for me?” 

“I- but _why_? Are you going away?” 

Aziraphale had been surprised to find, on that Saturday night when they had so narrowly avoided Armageddon, that Crowley even had such a thing as houseplants, much less that the demon seemed to take such care of them. And more than that, Crowley actually appeared to take a sort of secret pride in their plants: they had shown Aziraphale a large, lush one that was apparently the descendant of a cutting they had nicked from the Kensington gardens back in the 1890s. Of course, Crowley shows their pride in that ‘shoulder-shrug-so what?’ kind of way, so it is difficult to be sure. 

“Nah, you think they’d really send me anywhere right now? What’d be the point? No, but I thought I’d take a nap.” 

Aziraphale blinks. 

“You need me to water your plants” they say slowly, “while you _nap_?” 

Goodness, how much water do houseplants need? Aziraphale has never had one; they had no idea plants might be _that_ thirsty. 

“’course I do” Crowley looks at them as if Aziraphale is being purposely stupid; a look Aziraphale knows only too well, and still doesn’t like one bit. “They’re living things, angel, they can’t manage on their own for six months.” 

“ _Six months_?” they exclaim, a little too shrilly. Humans are turning their heads to look at them, which is never a good thing, and Crowley frowns. 

“What’s wrong with you today, Aziraphale? Why are you mimicking an echo chamber?” 

Exhaling slowly, Aziraphale struggles to form coherent words. 

“But Crowley…” they say tentatively, in a decidedly lower tone of voice, “you don’t even _need_ to sleep. Why would you sleep for half a year?” 

“'cause it feels good. I like sleeping. And I've been on active duty for eleven years now, figure I deserve a rest.” 

“But _half a year_ …” Aziraphale repeats, rather weakly. 

Crowley makes an annoyed snort. 

“It’s not _that_ long” they hiss, throwing some more pebbles at the hopeful pigeons surrounding their bench. “I don’t remember you making this much of a fuss when I slept the first half of the nineteenth century away.” 

Aziraphale blinks again. 

“That’s… you _slept_?” they ask, not believing their ears. “I thought you were in the States!” 

“Pfft” Crowley snorts. “They didn’t need me, they managed just fine on their own.” 

“How long?” 

“I dunno, I think maybe… forty-five?” 

“Forty-five _years_?” 

“Give or take.” 

Aziraphale falls silent. They had not had the slightest idea that Crowley might have still been at home in London, asleep. If they had, they would have- well, what? Aziraphale doesn’t know, exactly, only that this new knowledge is deeply unsettling. Why has Crowley not told them before? And now they are going to sleep again? Well, at least _this_ time they are telling Aziraphale about it, but… did Crowley not trust them, before? They were friendly at that time; it must have been shortly after Paris and the revolution. They are friendly now, too. And still Crowley is leaving? Again? 

“My apologies, I didn’t realise” Aziraphale says, once they realise that several long moments of silence have passed. “I shan’t pretend that I understand why on earth you would want to sleep all that time away, but of course I’ll help you, if I can.” 

They glance over at Crowley, who looks caught in between two opposing sets of emotions. After a split second, they seem to settle on laid-back drawling. 

“It’s not that difficult, angel” the demon says, sprawling a little further on the bench. “Just pop in about once a week, give ‘m some water and moisturise the air, they’ll be fine.” 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow; they have truly never known Crowley to take such care of anything, but then, cannot help but letting their expression change into a frown instead. 

“And what about you?” they ask. “Where will you be?” 

“Why, in the bedroom of course” replies the demon. “Where else?” 

“Well, couldn’t you get out of bed once a week, then?” 

This time it is the demon who raises an eyebrow, an eyebrow which, quite eloquently, tells Aziraphale that this is something they simply do not understand. So Aziraphale decides to try another approach. 

“I don’t suppose you could hire a human to do it?” 

They regret the question at once, the instant Crowley bares their teeth in a snarl. 

“First of all,” Crowley says, slipping a little on the _s_ -sound, “you know I’m not letting humans inside my flat. And even if I did, I’m not about to _risssk_ one of them finding me-” they lowered their voice to a hiss, “in _that_ form.” 

“… I see.” 

“I can’t control it while I’m asleep, okay?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

It is evident that Crowley is flustered by this admission, and Aziraphale realises that there is no way they can keep on refusing. After all the things Crowley has done for them throughout the millennia, taking care of their houseplants for a few months is the very least Aziraphale can do, surely? 

“Well…” they say. “When shall I start?” 

It is over a week before Crowley calls. They tell Aziraphale that they have taken care of things, ‘getting my affairs in order, that sort of stuff’ and that they will water the plants last thing ‘before I tuck in’. Aziraphale has the presence of mind to ask for a note with written instructions, and is strangely pleased at the exasperated sigh exploding out of Crowley at the other end of the telephone line. That sounds more like them. 

The call lasts rather a long while. Longer than any call either of them has made to the other before, actually, and Aziraphale for their part, does not want to hang up. In fact, they turn the shop sign to ‘Closed’ and bring the telephone with them to an armchair in a hidden away corner of the bookshop, cradling the receiver close to their ear. 

“…are you really going to sleep for the next six months?” they ask eventually, into the strained silence that crowds the connection. 

“Yeah angel, I told you.” 

“Oh…” 

“Will you miss me?” 

Aziraphale almost drops the phone. 

“Certainly not!” they protest, squeezing the receiver in their hand and their cheeks burning. The silence is heavy, suddenly, and Aziraphale wishes that that _particular_ reflex was not quite so ingrained. “…maybe a little.” 

“It’s only half a year” Crowley says, their voice rather low, almost comforting. “It’ll be like a blink of an eye.” 

“You don’t blink” Aziraphale points out, and the snort of laughter at the other end does not make them feel pleased at all. It feels worse. 

“Just don’t get into trouble without me, angel” Crowley says. 

“How can I? You’re the one causing trouble.” 

Silence, again. Of course there is silence. Crowley knows just as well as Aziraphale does that this, too, is a lie. The Reign of Terror and the Nazi conspiracy in London are only two of much too many occasions where Aziraphale has gotten themself into trouble, and Crowley has helped them out of it. 

This is ridiculous. They are being ridiculous. 

“Crowley” they whisper into the receiver. 

“Yeah, angel?” 

“Have a good nap.” 

There is a sound like laughter on the other end, followed by a long, flat note. Crowley has hung up, and Aziraphale remains in the armchair for the longest time, clutching the flatlining receiver in their hand. 

Crowley said that there was no need for Aziraphale to show up more often than once a week, so Aziraphale waits dutifully for the first week to come to its end. Usually, they would not find it that remarkable not to hear from the demon. There has been a time when hundreds or even a thousand years pass between their meetings, and although, since both of them set up residence in London, they meet a lot more often nowadays, it is not uncommon for months or even years to pass between one lunch and another. Now, however, Aziraphale finds themself distracted. Not because Crowley is not there, because they usually aren’t, but because Aziraphale knows that they won’t be coming around. Not for what feels like a long time. And, adding to their feeling silly and ridiculous, they find themself hoping against hope that Crowley will call again and tell them that they have changed their mind about the whole thing, and won’t Aziraphale join them for dinner? 

But there is no such call and by the end of that first week, Aziraphale closes the bookshop and heads over to Crowley’s Mayfair flat with a racing heart. Which is foolish, because Aziraphale does not exactly _need_ a heart, but it thunders on regardless. Their hands are sweaty, too. Ridiculous, indeed. 

Aziraphale has only been in Crowley’s flat that one time after the botched Armageddon, and as they unlock the front door, their hands are trembling. This is all so clearly Crowley’s domain, from the size of the imposing door to the snake shaped knocker, and Aziraphale feels like a trespasser stepping over the threshold. Crowley is the sort of being who keeps their private life very private indeed, and although they have invited Aziraphale inside, Aziraphale still feels distinctly as though they are violating the demon’s privacy simply by being here. 

The flat is still and quiet, though. There is a watering can and a spray bottle left out in the kitchen, as well a note, written in Crowley’s characteristic but surprisingly elegant hand: 

_1, Water – distribute full can among the lot. Refill 2x_

_2, Spray – fill up, spray leaves from above_

** Do not spoil them. **

The last four words are in bolder letters than the short list, and underlined twice. Aziraphale frowns – _how is one supposed to go about to spoil plants in the first place?_ – but shrugs and puts the note down. After a short turn about the flat to see just how many plants there are, they fill the watering can. Once all the plants have had some water – Aziraphale is unsure how much they ought to have, but at least they get _something_ – they fill the spray bottle and takes another turn, spraying the large, verdant leaves until they are covered with a fine dusting of water particles. Only once does Aziraphale stop in front of the closed bedroom door. Is Crowley truly in there? Sleeping? 

Aziraphale’s hand is almost on the door knob when they realise what they are about to do. Crowley. The desire is so sudden and terrifying they do not know what to do with it. Aziraphale wants to see wants to see them, _needs_ to see them. But there is no way they can enter the demon’s bedroom when Crowley trusts them like this. 

No. No way. 

Aziraphale backs away, puts the spray bottle back in the kitchen and flees. 

Over the next two months, Aziraphale makes good on their promise by following Crowley’s instructions to the dot. Once a week, they take the bus to Mayfair, enters the flat and waters and sprays the houseplants, and then leaves straightaway once the mission is completed. A fine layer of dust settles on the floor and furniture, disturbed only by Aziraphale’s quick visits. Otherwise, the flat stays as still and quiet as on their first visit, with no sign of anyone living there, and no sign of Crowley. 

Aziraphale is beginning to feel their absence even more keenly. Perhaps it has something to do with the marked silence from Heaven; Aziraphale has received no communications at all since Crowley impersonated them in the Hellfire, and it makes them a little… antsy. They have never felt more alone, more abandoned on Earth, in all the six thousand years of living here. At least before, there was always Crowley. And while Crowley is still here, well, they aren’t, quite. 

Perhaps that is why, after another month or so, Aziraphale begins to… linger. Rather than simply performing their plant-care duties and leave straightaway, they remain in the flat a little longer, prolonging their stay and thereby delaying their departure with a little more time each visit. 

They just don’t want to leave. 

During the first few months, Aziraphale avoided looking too closely on anything that is not one of the potted plants Now they look at everything. Studies it, even. There is not a whole lot of personal items; Crowley has never been one for hoarding possessions, but the more Aziraphale looks, the more, it seems, they see. There are the paintings, of course, _La Gioconda_ perhaps most prominent among them, but she is in the good company of a small Caravaggio and a couple of af Klints, as well as a large Kahlo. The paintings are all displayed in solitary splendour, the walls a grey, blank slate which serves only to enhance the beauty of the art. Aziraphale spends a full hour in front of one of the af Klint paintings, entranced and also a little ashamed that they have not looked before. 

They begin to drop in two times per week. 

They spend several nights poring over the vast musical collection, which consists mostly of records and compact discs, but also a number of tapes. As Aziraphale is ignorant of any music that might be described by any other word than “classical”, they are pleased to find that about half the collection will actually fit into that category. Composers whose names they recognise, symphonies they have listened to in concert halls all over Europe for the past five hundred years, contained in round discs of shellac and vinyl and whatever compact discs are made of, readily available to be listened to at any moment. Only one gramophone record is unopened, its seal intact, the paper sleeve frail and faded yellow. Shostakovich’s fifth symphony. The only concert they and Crowley have ever attended together, mere months before the second world war made Europe erupt into flame once more. Aziraphale wept. Crowley bought a record, but has apparently never listened to the music again. 

At another visit, when they go over to the flat almost every other night, Aziraphale lingers over the books. 

There are less than twenty of them, a number so small that Aziraphale would never call any other such group a collection. But this is, undoubtedly, a collection. Each of Shakespeare’s comedies, as well as his sonnets, and of course, _Paradise Lost_ and _Inferno_. _Doctor Faustus_ , too. A collection of Catullus’ poems, the only one of the books that is not a first edition (now _that_ would have been something), but a cheap and tattered paperback. 

Forgetting themself, Aziraphale sits down with the copy of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. It is worn in the way books are worn by four hundred years and numerous re-reads, and although Aziraphale cringes at the sight of the dog-eared pages and the inked underlining of certain passages, they can tell that this is a book that Crowley truly, deeply appreciates. They do not leave until they have finished the play, but as they do, they leave feeling as though they have read it for the first time. 

Aziraphale tries to tell themself, emphatically, that they are not snooping. Everything they look at is there for them to see, hung on walls or stored in open shelves. They open no drawers, or cupboards, or doors. Even so, they wonder whether the demon will mind. Even in this proximity to them, in being in their home with their belongings almost every night, the sensation of Crowley’s absence does not diminish. 

It grows. 

Summer has long since turned to autumn, and autumn is now turning into winter, and still Crowley sleeps. If they are even there. Aziraphale cannot bear to open the bedroom door to see, in case the room is empty. They just don’t know what they would do if Crowley is not in there. In the flat, at least, there are traces of Crowley that are nowhere else to be found, and Aziraphale needs to be close to those traces more than they could ever admit, even to themself. 

By the time that the humans celebrate the old year and the new, Aziraphale has more or less moved in. 

They bring no personal effects. They still return to the bookshop every day, and go through the motions of the routine they have kept for most of the past two hundred and fifty years. Every evening, however, they return to the Crowley’s flat like a homing pigeon, unable to resist the pull that seems to have taken up residence in their chest. If anyone were to ask what they do there, Aziraphale would be too flustered to reply, but the truth is, of course, that they are waiting. 

It is late January when something shifts. 

It is a miserable day, stormy and wet and grey, but Aziraphale is quite comfortable in the armchair they have more or less made theirs. The wind is audible even through the thick glass in Crowley’s windows, and perhaps that is why, at first, Aziraphale does not grasp what they hear. The noise must have gone on for several minutes before they understand that it is not the wind at all, nor some other common flat noise. They know all those noises by now. This is different. _Pained_. 

The realisation makes Aziraphale shoot out of their seat. There is only one being currently within earshot (assuming of course that Crowley is actually there) and Aziraphale is an angel, for Heaven’s sake! They may be exiled, but they cannot sit idly by and do nothing if someone is in pain! And as they approach the bedroom door, it is achingly clear that the sound is coming from inside. 

“Crowley?” they call, their voice anxious even to their own ears. “Crowley, dear, are you-” 

The pained noise dissipates. There is no answering voice, though, no sounds to suggest that Crowley has awakened, but there are no sounds of distress, either. Still, Aziraphale remains outside the bedroom door for the duration of the night. 

The same thing happens the next night, and the night after. Without warning, without anything to suggest why it happens, Aziraphale will hear the muffled sounds of pained groans, of anguish, and they will rush to the bedroom door, only to stop right outside, one hand on the smooth wood, not daring to open it. 

“Crowley” they call, night after night, “Crowley, I’m right here, dear.” 

And the sounds cease. Peace settles once again. But after a week or more of such nights, Aziraphale does not bother even sitting down in the armchair in the living room. Instead they settle down on the floor and leans back against the bedroom door. Waiting. Waiting. Never once daring to open the door. 

Aziraphale does not know what it might be that haunts the demon through their sleep, but whatever it is seems to have them firmly in its grasp. The nightmares, for that is the only word Aziraphale finds to describe what they hear through the walls and door, proceed. Where before the nightmare struck but once a night, they begin to reappear, twice, thrice a night, and each time it happens, Aziraphale calls soothing words into the bedroom. During the days, in the bookshop, they try not to think about whether the nightmares return even in daytime, and fail spectacularly. 

As they arrive to Crowley’s flat one night, they hear screams. 

Horrible, terrified screaming that cuts straight into Aziraphale’s core. They do not hesitate, do not even stop to make certain the front door is properly closed, but runs for the bedroom and throws the door open. 

Crowley is there, in the bed, huddled together underneath a soft blanket, but the sound coming out of their mouth is the worst scream of terror Aziraphale has ever heard. They sit down and place one hand on the demon’s shoulder, but the scream only intensifies and takes on a new aspect of horror. The body under Aziraphale’s hand is rigid, as if it is not a body at all but merely the image of one, sculpted from granite, frozen in fear. 

“Crowley” they say, whisper, plead, “Crowley, dear…” 

But the screams continue, piercing the soft warmth of the room, and Aziraphale cannot wake them up. They do not know what to do, only that they cannot leave, not when Crowley is like this! Not when they are afraid and alone! It might be a gross invasion of privacy, and Crowley might be upset with them about it later, but for now, Aziraphale does the only thing that comes to mind. They lie down on the bed, wrap their arms around the demon’s rigid body, and hold them close. 

“It’s me” they whisper, as they curl up like a bracket behind Crowley’s back, their whole body embracing as much of the demon’s body as they possibly can. “I’m here, Crowley. Whatever is haunting you, I’m here. You’ll be alright.” 

They are not nonsense words. They are not inconsequential. Instead, Aziraphale picks every word with care, and makes sure to imbue them with all the love they feel, all the warmth and light that is in them to share. If they cannot chase the nightmare away, then at least, Aziraphale hopes, they can weather the storm. 

At first, nothing changes. 

Crowley remains just as tense, and screams just as loudly. But eventually, gradually, it fades. Whatever has held them, lets go its grasp. Screaming turns into sobbing, then gasping, then a low keening. Crowley’s muscles relax, they shake and tremble, and as Aziraphale holds them, they lose track of the passing hours, waiting for something to, inevitably, change. 

It comes with a sound like glass breaking. 

“Aziraphale?” 

Crowley’s voice is raw and hoarse, so different from their usual swagger and self-assuredness that it barely sounds like them at all. Aziraphale withdraws their arm, but Crowley’s hand shoots out and captures Aziraphale’s hand with their own, intertwining their fingers. Complying, Aziraphale sinks back down into the bed and keeps on holding the demon close through the blanket. There are no questions why they are there, in the bed, which quite frankly is a relief. And seeing as Crowley does not appear to want them to leave, Aziraphale stays. 

“I dreamed” Crowley blurts suddenly, as if pushing the words out, eager to be rid of them. “About the- when I fell.” 

They sound almost out of breath. Aziraphale settles for a very soft ‘oh’. 

“I haven’t- I haven’t had that dream since- not for millennia.” 

“I’m so sorry, dear” Aziraphale murmurs, squeezing a little extra comfort through their hug. “How awful.” 

Crowley makes a very small huffing sort of noise. 

“You’ve no idea.” 

“Well…” Aziraphale says slowly, thinking about how the demon is still holding on rather tightly to their hand, after all, “would you like to talk about it?” 

The tension snaps back into place as if it was never gone; the demon turns again to stone in Aziraphale’s embrace. 

“Crowley?” 

“…do you remember it?” Crowley says, their voice as tense as a bow string. 

It is Aziraphale’s turn to hesitate, and several long moments pass before they can bring themself to speak. 

“Yes” they say quietly. “Though I don’t think any of us truly understood what happened, at the time.” 

“What did it look like?” 

Crowley’s voice is so low, so unlike them. _Six thousand years we’ve known each other_ , Aziraphale thinks, _and we have never spoken about this_. 

“Nothing like falling at all. I remember…” they pause, struggling for the right words, “seeing angels, friends, being lifted up, held aloft for all to see. And it was as though all of Heaven screamed, not from voices, but from the very core of creation, and my vision seemed to flicker. I could see my friends dissolve in front of my eyes, and as they did, I forgot who they were. I remember it so clearly, yet I cannot recall even a single name. Not one out of ten million.” 

Heaven had been in chaos, after that. Confused and scared, angels of all the nine hierarchies had gathered, seeking comfort and answers with each other. _What has happened? We do not understand, please, please, enlighten us so that we may understand what we have seen and heard?_ And God had not spoken, but had let knowledge sip into all of them. Their fellow angels had risen up in defiance, they had rebelled against the Almighty, they were now fallen from Her Grace, _demons_ , beings sentenced to spend the eternity of time without end in the shadow of God’s creation. 

“It felt like falling” Crowley whispers, their voice thick. “It felt like falling for all eternity.” 

Aziraphale says nothing, but stays very, very still. 

“It felt like I was being pulled apart, like every smallest particle of my being was scorched by divine light. I forgot my name, my purpose, my… my celestial body. When it ended, everything was new. Dark. We were in Hell, all of us, blackened by the fire, raw with the sulphur. We had nothing.” 

Aziraphale has never heard the Fall described by a demon before. It has always been talked about in Heaven with reverence: a necessary smiting of the tainted angels, the rebels. It has certainly kept the rest of them in line. No more questions. 

“We were cast out” Crowley continues. “We knew that. I can still remember Heaven from before. I can remember ‘doing wrong’.” 

Crowley screws up their voice, mimicking, quoting, and Aziraphale recognises the anger within. The helplessness. They have heard it before, but never like this. Never with so much vulnerability. 

“I couldn’t remember my name. No one could. There was no order, no hierarchy; only endless fights, everyone trying to find their place.” 

Aziraphale remembers Hell, what little of it they saw during their brief visit. A mirror image of Heaven, but skewed, distorted. Lords and Dukes, and filthy masses clamouring for the purpose they had lost. 

“What did you do?” Aziraphale whispers. 

“Kept to the side, most of the time, until the fighting stopped. Chose a name for myself.” 

Aziraphale’s mind reels. They have never chosen their own name; the thought has never even occurred to them. They have an alias, to be sure, have used several such during their time on Earth, but their name was given to them by God. It is absolute, unchangeable, truth. _Aziraphale_ is who they are. 

But Crowley lost their name. From what Aziraphale can deduce, it was taken from them, and with it, their identity. In choosing a new name, they created themself anew. 

It is a terrifying prospect, and worse than that: awe-inspiring. 

“I hated it.” 

“What?” Aziraphale asks, taken aback. “Your name?” 

“That too.” 

“Well, couldn’t you have chosen a new name, then?” 

Crowley snorts. 

“I did, remember?” 

“Oh. Right. Yes.” 

“How long have I slept?” 

The question startles Aziraphale, aware suddenly that this kind of proximity is not a common occurrence between them. Nor is the honesty, and frankly they are a little upset to think that perhaps this sincere conversation has come to an end. Still, there is no way they could refrain from answering. 

“Well, your six months are almost up, as a matter of fact. It’s February.” 

Crowley makes a sound Aziraphale cannot quite interpret. 

“Would you like to go back to sleep?” they ask, in an attempt to be considerate. 

“Ha, yeah, reliving the worst part of my existence one more time, sounds amazing, can’t wait for it, can’t believe I didn’t think of _that_ ” Crowley snarls. Then, as they no doubt feel how Aziraphale tenses and moves away, they turn around in the bed and put their hand on Aziraphale’s arm. “’m sorry, angel.” 

Crowley’s face wears a naked expression; not like there is only one single emotion, but as though all the emotions there are laid bare and visible. Their eyes are slightly iridescent, the pupils large and dilated in the near darkness. Aziraphale shakes their head. 

“No, no, I see, how silly of me to ask” they say. Then, rather more slowly: “But, Crowley…?” 

“Hngh?” 

“What did you do?” 

“What did I _do_?” the demon repeats, incredulously. Aziraphale’s voice shrinks. 

“Why did you fall?” The silence that follows is unbearable, so Aziraphale continues, hurriedly: “You don’t have to answer, I’m sorry, I realise- what an insensitive question, I really shouldn’t have-” 

“No, it’s, uh, it’s okay” Crowley says, calming Aziraphale’s flood of flustered words for a moment. They sound as if they do not quite know what to say. “I just… didn’t think you cared ‘bout it.” 

_“I care!_ ” Aziraphale protests, sitting up in the bed before they realise it. “ _Of course I care!_ ” 

They draw a quick breath, not because they need to breathe but because this- this- this _assumption_ is simply too much! 

“How can you think I don’t care?” they ask, much too close to tears for their own liking. 

Crowley is sitting up in the bed now, too, and their eyes are a tired, shimmering glare. 

“Well, you’ve never asked _before_ , for one” the demon says, leaning one arm on their drawn-up knee, “and besides, you’ve always drawn a pretty clear line between us, as if you thought I’d got what I deserved and was afraid I’d taint you or something.” 

“Yes, I was afraid!” 

Crowley looks as taken aback by this admission as Aziraphale feels. They are not sure they meant to say it, but it is too late to change now. 

“ _Of course_ I was afraid” Aziraphale continues, voice a bit lower, tears still threatening to spill over. “We were never told what it was you had done, only that you had all been cast out. For all any of us knew, it _was_ a taint!” 

They look at each other for a time, Crowley’s expression still raw and naked and full of pain. 

“I’m not afraid of _you_ ” Aziraphale amends softly. “Ever since we first met, I’ve had more in common with you than with any other being, now more than ever. I’m just trying to… I want to understand. If you’ll tell me.” 

The demon studies them in silence for a long while before they speak. 

“I just asked questions” they say. “We all did. Some were more shouty about it than others, I’ll give you that, but we just wanted to know, really.” 

“Wanted to know what?” 

“Everything!” The demon gestures widely with their hands, then lowers them, and shrugs. “Anything. Why were we all off creating stuff, what was the point, why would the Almighty create Earth if the plan was to destroy it, and what was the point of that, just a lot of extra work all around, and who would even be on this ‘other side’…” 

Crowley scoffs. 

“Well, at least we found out about _that_ part.” 

“But that doesn’t sound particularly bad” Aziraphale says, bewildered. In truth, it sounds nothing like a rebellion at all. Annoying, perhaps, if God had to listen to millions of angels asking those same questions over and over again, but rebellious? Evil? 

“Well obviously, it _was_ ” Crowley says, shrugging again. “Back then.” 

“I’m sorry, Crowley.” 

“What? What for?” 

“For behaving like an insensitive fool for six millennia, for a start” Aziraphale says heatedly, feeling their cheeks flush again. Then, a little more quietly: “And for you. That you… fell.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, angel” and there is the shrug again, but this time, it is in Crowley’s voice. Water off a duck. “I’ve told you, it was a long time ago. Is what it is.” 

“Do you truly mean that?” Aziraphale asks. “You’re… over it? Come to terms?” 

“Yeah, well, I mean… I hope I’ll never experience anything like Falling ever again, but I’m not going to spend the rest of eternity hating myself. Seems a bit of a waste.” 

It sounds just like Crowley, and Aziraphale wants to believe them, even though, deep down, they are unsure whether Falling from Grace is something you can ever truly get over. 

“But you said you hated it?” they ask, daring to put forth yet another insensitive question. “What happened that made it alright?” 

Crowley makes a sound that may well be a ‘ngk’. 

“I’m sorry, dear,” Aziraphale says, “but you know I don’t speak snake.” 

This time Crowley snorts, explosively. Aziraphale is uncertain whether this means they are shocked or amused, but then there is a small ‘heh’ and they relax. 

“ _You_ made it alright” Crowley says, their voice as soft as one of their feathers, caressing not Aziraphale’s skin but their very essence. 

“I- I- I did?” 

Crowley squirms a little where they sit, and then, almost self-consciously, puts both their arms around their pulled-up knee. 

“Yeah, you did” they say. “You know, at first when I got here, it wasn’t so bad. The world was small, everything had that new car smell- argk, you know what I mean. Had a name, had a body, a whole planet to roam, good times.” 

Aziraphale nods – deciding not to do more about the ‘car smell’ remark than frown – as they too remember those first few millennia. No doubt a lot of things happened to humanity during that time, but travelling and information took so much longer, back then. The world, to most people, consisted of the village they grew up in, and perhaps at times a neighbouring village or the distant idea of an almost mythical king or emperor. Their conception of the world was infinitesimal, in comparison to its true vastness. They still don’t quite see how this relates to anything they did, though. 

“D’you remember people back in those days?” Crowley continues conversationally. “I mean, they too were afraid of everything, but they accepted that there were things they didn’t understand. As long as you didn’t hurt them, you were fine! The Greeks, _man_ , I loved the Greeks.” 

“Can’t imagine you had a lot of work to do there” Aziraphale smiles. “Rather a decadent bunch, as I recall.” 

“The very best!” Crowley proclaims, their voice brimming with pride. “No temptations needed: they drank, fucked, and fought, on repeat, the whole nation did.” 

“So, what did you do?” 

“I lived there. Among them. Like you and I do here, but better.” 

“How?” 

“Their _myths_ ” Crowley says. “Don’t you remember? For all they knew, anyone could be the descendant of a god; their pantheon was full of them, demi-gods and bastard children of demi-gods and bastard children of incestuous demi-gods…” 

Aziraphale stares at them. 

“You” they say slowly, “ _you_ , a _fallen angel_ , lived among humans, passing as a-” 

“Bastard child of incestuous Greek demi-gods” Crowley fills in, grinning so widely Aziraphale thinks their jaw might just unhinge. “Hence the eyes.” 

They look so proud of themself, or rather, so pleased, that for a moment Aziraphale all but forgets the trembling and screaming of only hours ago. This is the Crowley they know, radiant and bragging and on top of the world. 

“You’re unbelievable” Aziraphale says with an amused exhale of breath. 

“Oh no, they quite believed it. I think I’m mentioned in a handful of their poems, actually. Just in passing, of course” they add. “Didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Private person, me.” 

“Quite” Aziraphale muses fondly. Then, softer: “What happened?” 

Crowley’s expression changes at once into something harsher, something wounded. 

“Remember the carpenter?” 

“Who?” 

“You know who - the shepherd, the Messiah, the saviour-” 

It is Aziraphale’s time to snort. 

“Crowley, dear, I’m an _angel_ , I think I can be safely relied upon to remem-” 

The sound Crowley makes can only be described as a frustrated growl. 

“Yeah, I _know_ ,” they say, “what I meant is, do you remember what happened after?” 

“Well… the rise of Christianity?” Aziraphale tries, tentatively. “Conversions, a great many prophets, the spread of texts and gospels…” 

“Increased suspicions, persecutions, mass executions” Crowley counters, using the exact same tone of voice as Aziraphale just did. “Everyone did it. Romans worst of all.” 

Aziraphale frowns. A thought, no, a memory, is making itself known. They did not think about it at the time, did not reflect on it then, but… 

“We met” Aziraphale begins, looking at Crowley for affirmation as the memory reshapes itself. “In Rome. It was just a few years after… You’d cut your hair. It was the first time I ever saw you with short hair. You looked very proper.” 

The demon snorts but says nothing, evidently waiting for Aziraphale to go on. 

“We had oysters. It was the first time we-” Aziraphale stops as their mind backtracks. “You wore glasses.” 

Crowley raises their eyebrows and for several long moments, Aziraphale merely stares back at them as realisation dawns. 

“Crowley” they say, “you weren’t _persecuted_ , were you?” 

The demon scowls, then shrugs, then wriggles uncomfortably, then says in a very rapid succession: “Mnya, nye, maybe a little bit, wasn’t too bad”. 

“ _Crowley_ ” Aziraphale says again, unable to say anything else. The thought is appalling. “But, what did _I_ do?” 

Aziraphale knows, although they rarely want to think about it, that they have perhaps not always been the most tactful entity in the room. Now they realise, distantly and with a growing sense of horror, that in helping with spreading Christianity throughout the world, they have also, in however a small and indirect way, contributed to Crowley being actively persecuted. The thought is devastating. 

“You can’t laugh.” 

“What?” Aziraphale asks, still reeling and unable to follow this quick turn. 

“At what I’m about to tell you, you can’t laugh.” 

“Why would I laugh?” They have perhaps never felt so far from laughing in all their existence. 

_“Promise me you won’t laugh.”_

“I promise you, Crowley, I won’t laugh. On my honour as a Principality.” 

The demon seems to calm down slightly, but does not speak at once. Instead they seem to re-evaluate what they are about to say, which makes Aziraphale feel even worse. 

“I thought that maybe I’d be forgiven, too.” 

Crowley’s voice is so low that even Aziraphale has trouble making the words out, but there is such heartfelt honesty, such vulnerability, as they have never seen in the demon before. 

“That was part of the plan, after all” Crowley continues in a whisper, running one hand through their flaming red hair. “Forgiveness for all sinners. Big symbolic gesture. Everyone absolved, forever.” 

Aziraphale had rather liked it, that particular part of it. Whatever the humans would do, their sins would be forgiven. God’s Grace was granted to them once again, and for all eternity. Certainly, Aziraphale knows (though it makes them uncomfortable to have to admit it) that it demanded the sacrifice and suffering of one particular human, but it _had_ been a very nice symbolic gesture. 

“Should’ve read the fine print” Crowley continues. “Forgiveness for _mankind_ only. No absolution for demons, no can do.” 

They pause. 

“You’re not laughing.” 

“Certainly not” Aziraphale says. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been farther from laughing.” 

There is no joy or humour to be found in this. What Crowley shares now, with an almost painful honesty, is some of their worst moments and memories, their fears. Aziraphale cannot laugh at that. Especially not considering… 

“And…” Aziraphale hesitates, for a moment regretting the impulse to continue. This is a little too close for comfort, too close to the truth. But it would be rude, and cowardly, and dishonest, not to return the sincerity and trust which Crowley has shown them. “If I’m to be perfectly honest, I… rather thought that might have happened, too.” 

“You what?” Crowley stares at them, confused, but more so, surprised. It reminds Aziraphale distinctly of their first meeting. 

“I thought you might have been forgiven!” Aziraphale repeats, flustered. “When I saw you in that tavern, I was so glad to see you, I could hardly believe my eyes. And I thought that, if perhaps you had been forgiven, I could see you more often. You know, without having to be afraid of… falling.” The last word comes out a whisper, and Aziraphale hurries to add another fear: “Or Gabriel finding out.” 

Aziraphale swallows. Crowley is still staring at them, disbelief written all over their face. 

“But you still took me out to dinner” Crowley says, sounding for all the world as if they are trying to make sense of a great mystery. “Even though I was still a demon?” 

“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale remembers that day even more clearly now. Crowley’s defensive, aggressive shot-back. _Of course I’m still a demon!_ Aziraphale had thought they were disappointed or perhaps angry at Aziraphale’s question, but now they thought it might actually have been the answer Crowley had had to give, that had prompted their outburst. It explained rather a lot. “You looked as though you were having a rough time, and I wanted to cheer you up. And things were going so well for, well, my side, I thought they might not notice. And also… I had missed you, Crowley.” 

Their voice dips a little with this admission, and Aziraphale hopes they do not blush. They have a tendency to do so rather more often than they would prefer, and it shows too well. If they do so now, however, Crowley does not seem to notice. Instead, the demon appears absolutely perplexed. 

“You missed me?” they whisper, not disbelieving, exactly, but rather as though they are uncertain of the verb. “But we’d met only a few years before?” 

“I know” Aziraphale says and squirms where they sit among Crowley’s bed linens and blankets. After all, what are a few measly years compared to centuries, or millennia, or eternity? But then… 

“And now you’ve slept for not even six months and I’ve missed you every single day of that time.” 

It feels good, saying it out loud. Truths should be told. 

“The world is not the same without you, Crowley.” 

For a moment, there is absolute silence. Then Crowley explodes out of the bed and out of the room. 

Aziraphale is left behind on the bed, stunned. 

There is a myriad of sounds from elsewhere in the flat: bangs, furniture screeching on the floor, and a lot of grumbling and cut short expletives that can only be attributed to Crowley. Crowley, whose beautiful golden eyes widened impossibly and whose face looked so vulnerable and naked. _I’ve said too much_ , Aziraphale thinks and sighs. _Too much, too soon_. But there it is, the truth confessed – and it was a confession, Aziraphale recognises this. And although it should have no effect on their physical body, their chest feels lighter, their spirits higher. 

_The world is not the same without you, Crowley._

Since when? Aziraphale cannot say. Crowley has been there almost since the very beginning; Aziraphale cannot imagine the world without them in it. And yet, they know exactly what the past six months have felt like. 

**"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!”**

Crowley’s booming voice is too loud for the flat; too loud for the world. Someone once tried to explain to Aziraphale what ‘turning it up to eleven’ means, and while they did not completely understand it then, the phrase comes to mind now. Crowley’s voice is simply too much to belong to a human body. But it comes from somewhere inside the flat, and Aziraphale is curious and a little anxious to know what’s going on, so they leave the bedroom. 

**“HAVE I NOT TOLD YOU”** they hear the demon rage on, as they make their way down the short hall, **“HAVE I NOT SHOWN YOU-”**

“Crowley?” 

The demon stands in the middle of the living room, surrounded by their plants, which are all shaking as though caught in a storm. 

“What’s going on?” 

“What have you done to them?” the demon demands, their eyes aflame. “What have you done to my bloody plants?” 

“Well, I- I’ve watered them” Aziraphale stammers, “and sprayed them, and- I’ve followed your instructions, Crowley! Did I get it wrong?” 

To Aziraphale’s eyes, the plants look almost as happy, lush and green as when they first entered the flat six months ago. A little paler, perhaps, from lack of sunlight, but what else can you expect during winter? 

“They’re wilting! Failing at life!” Crowley yells, not so much at Aziraphale, but at the offending plants. The leaves of every single one tremble as if in terror. “Yellow edges! Drooping stems! _Leaf spots_.” 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale steps forward to interject themself between the demon and their plants. “Don’t be angry with them, dear, please. It’s winter, I’m sure they’re all doing their very best to grow nicely for you.” 

The demon glares at them, and for a moment Aziraphale is certain that they will receive a telling off, too, but then Crowley’s expression shifts again, back into that bare, vulnerable face they made earlier. As if one touch, one single word out of place, might break them. 

“How do you do that?” the demon whispers. 

“Do what, dear?” 

“How can you be so _good_ , so _blessedly nice_ , even to the-” 

Aziraphale embraces them. It feels like the right thing to do. The demon tenses right up, and for a second it seems they might start spitting venom, but Aziraphale hugs them a little tighter, and eventually, Crowley relaxes into the embrace. Hiding their face against Aziraphale’s neck, the demon even hugs them back. The terrified rustling of leaves ceases. 

“Is there anything I can do, dear?” Aziraphale asks softly. “Anything at all?” 

The answer, if there is an answer, is spoken so quietly that Aziraphale cannot make out any words. It’s more like a subterranean rumble, and Aziraphale makes a small, inquisitive sound of encouragement. 

“You’ve already-” the demon begins, “you already did.” 

“But what did I do? You still haven’t said.” 

“I did!” comes the heated reply, though still muffled somewhat by the position of the demon’s mouth against the collar of Aziraphale’s sweater. Then, quieter again, “you took me to dinner. You didn’t… turn your back, even though I was still…” 

They choke on the words, or else, regrets them. Either way, the sentence is left unfinished, and Aziraphale feels the weight of it. The raw, unshielded and honest truth therein, which Crowley has never let them see before. 

“Crowley” Aziraphale says, and they can feel a shiver run through Crowley’s body. 

“You think too highly of me” Aziraphale continues softly, choosing each word with care. “I did not invite you out to eat for the sake of being good. I did it for me. For myself. Because I’ve been selfish, and afraid, and I think I’ve hurt you, dear, all these years. In trying to keep my distance and erecting barriers between us because of that fear. But I wouldn’t trade our dinners for the world.” Crowley lets out a trembling breath. 

“The feeling is mutual, angel” they whisper. “Always. Ever since that first time.” 

“Two thousand years is rather a long time” Aziraphale muses. “Even for us.” 

Crowley leans back suddenly. They do not leave the embrace, exactly, but withdraws enough to look Aziraphale squarely in the eye. 

“No. Ever since the first time we met, and you told me you had given away your sword to the humans, and you shielded me from the first rain.” 

A shiver runs down Aziraphale’s spine. 

“Oh” they say. “ _Oh_.” 

“Because you know, Aziraphale” the demon says, their voice like honey or liquid gold to Aziraphale’s ears, “the world is not the same without you in it, either.” 

Aziraphale does not quite know what happened, then. They essentially lost all sense of time or place, but they are dreadfully certain that there was blushing. A whole lot of it. In fact, their cheeks still burn, even standing here in front of Crowley’s music collection, absent-mindedly flipping through the soft paper cases with their worn edges while Crowley takes a restorative shower. 

_The world is not the same without you in it_ , either, Crowley said. Even thinking back on it, Aziraphale feels a delightful shiver run down their spine and a renewed heat on their cheeks. Those words feel too large for Aziraphale’s body, too large even to be held within the space of this large, bare room. Only half a year ago, they toasted to the world. Now, it is as if they have somehow torn the world down and rebuilt it again, with everything still exactly the same, only… shifted, imperceptibly. 

They shiver again. 

“You cold, angel?” 

The suave voice makes Aziraphale jump where they stand, even though they know the voice at once. Crowley stands in the doorway of the room, dressed only in pyjama bottoms and drying their still damp hair with a fluffy towel. 

“I’m sorry?! Oh, no, no, thank you” Aziraphale stammers, “quite splendid, in fact. Yes. Do you feel refreshed? I could miracle your hair dry for y-” 

“Nah, don’t worry, I’ve got it” Crowley says, sauntering closer on bare feet. “What’ve you found there?” 

Aziraphale looks down on the case in their hand. Shostakovich’s fifth, sealed. Well, they may as well ask. 

“You’ve never listened to this” Aziraphale remarks. “Why not?” 

“Didn’t buy it to listen to it” Crowley shrugs. “I bought it as a keepsake, you know, our first time at a concert together, well, our _only_ concert to- …are you alright Aziraphale? You look…” 

Crowley leans closer, and Aziraphale hopes, _almost prays_ , that they won’t notice- 

“Are you blushing?” _Damn_. “You are!” 

Crowley grins deviously, and Aziraphale hurries to put the record back in its place on the shelf and retreats to their armchair. Not that it helps, because Crowley, still grinning, follows them and plops down on the armrest, much too close for Aziraphale to hide their face. Not that they really want to. In fact, hiding is probably the very last thing they want right now, even though they feel like they maybe should. Crowley looks like they’re about to swallow them whole. 

“Why’re you blushing, angel?” 

“I’m not- well, yes, alright, I _am_ , and it’s all because of you, so there” Aziraphale says, glancing up at Crowley’s face, so close to their own. 

“Really?” 

“Yes, really” they say. But it’s not enough, Aziraphale knows that. There is more to say, and they ought to say it now, because, well, truths should be told. Especially truths like these. “Now, I know you’ll protest and say it wasn’t, but please don’t, because what you just said was… well, it was marvellously sweet and I… I feel quite unequal to the occasion.” 

Crowley’s grin fades into uncertainty. 

“What occasion?” they ask slowly. 

Aziraphale wets their lips and wrings their hands. 

“I… well…” They pause, breathe out, and try again. “I told you, I’ve missed you. Every single day, Crowley. I’ve come here rather more often than we agreed, I should confess, and I’ve been sitting here, thinking about you and missing your company and waiting for you to wake up. I was so afraid you weren’t even here, that… maybe you had gone away and left me here, all alone, and I didn’t know if I could bear that. You, leaving. And then I heard you. Having that dream. It’s… it’s been going on for some time. Months, actually.” 

A sound escapes them, Aziraphale cannot help it. It sounds like a laugh, but it feels more like a cry. Sad and helpless. 

“I wanted so desperately to help you” they continue, “but I didn’t know what to do, Crowley! I didn’t even dare come inside your room until tonight. So, I sat outside your door and spoke to you through the nights, to keep the dreams away, and I still missed you, frightfully much. And tonight… well, with all the things you have told me tonight, I’m afraid I can no longer pretend as if the world has not changed. For me, at least.” 

“What are you saying, angel?” 

Crowley’s voice is impossibly soft and when Aziraphale glances up at them again, there are so many emotions on their face, Aziraphale cannot make them all out. Frustration, sadness, confusion. A small, hesitant hope. 

“That I love you, Crowley, and that I wish to never be parted from you again.” 

Something flickers in Crowley’s eyes, in their unguarded expression. Then they smile, and nod. 

“Yeah, angel, me too.” 

Crowley chuckles, helplessly, Aziraphale thinks, and then Aziraphale chuckles as well, and soon they are laughing, both of them, and then Crowley leans in and Aziraphale too, and their lips meet. It is the briefest contact, light as the brush of a feather, but Aziraphale shivers and Crowley lets out a shaky breath, and then Crowley’s hand is in Aziraphale’s hair, Aziraphale’s hand on Crowley’s hip, and their lips meet again and again, like waves coming to shore. 

It feels just as natural and right as that. Waves coming to shore. 

“That was…” Crowley says, breathless and lips almost still on Aziraphale’s lips, “probably the most human thing I could have done right then.” 

Aziraphale laughs, meeting the other’s golden gaze, and there is laughter there, too. 

“Yes, I believe so. But that is our way now, isn’t it? The human way.” 

“Yeah” Crowley agrees. “Has been for some time now, I think.” 

“Then everything is as it should be.” 

Hours later, maybe days later – Aziraphale has lost all track of time – they are back in Crowley’s bed. This time they are both underneath the blanket and lying face to face, their eyes locked together in an infinite loop of smiles. Aziraphale feels silly and ridiculous and it doesn’t matter, not one bit, because Crowley gives them the exact same look right back, and that, _that_ , is the only thing that will ever matter ever again. 

“Thank you” Crowley says, momentarily breaking the silent spell of giddy happiness and loud, unvoiced thoughts with actual words. 

“Whatever for, dear?” Aziraphale whispers. 

“For looking at me in this way you do. For believing in the goodness in me.” 

Aziraphale can feel their heart break. That must be what’s happening. There can be no other explanation for this sensation welling up inside. 

“Oh” they breathe. “Oh darling, no, hush, it’s I who should thank you.” 

“Why?” 

“For putting up with me.” Crowley grimaces and Aziraphale places one finger on their lips to stop any protest. “And for waiting for me. But more than that, for trusting me, and caring for me, all this time. Your love is the most precious gift and I will treasure it, always.” 

“Not going too fast for you, then?” 

Crowley speaks in a light-hearted tone, but Aziraphale can tell that they are sincerely worried about Aziraphale’s reply. They move their hand to cup Crowley’s cheek, and smile. 

“I think you will always be faster than I am,” they say, “but on this, from here on out, I’ll do my best to keep up.” 

In the end, this, _this_ , is the only thing that will ever matter, ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title for this piece is definitely "My world is empty without you, babe", with a courteous nod to The Supremes, but that would have given away some of the points too early...


End file.
